not the only one with clever fingers,
“Very … dexterous,” I said.
He smiled, and I saw that his eyes were not just brown, but many colors, shot through with yellow and green, impossible to say which might be dominant. His hands gave another flourish and the coin reappeared between two fingers. He laid it in my palm, still smiling. “For you, Miss Tulman, so you may hire a guard to walk you to the next door.”
Mrs. Hardcastle laughed uproariously at this, but my gaze went again to the window before landing back on Mr. Marchand. He was teasing me, but I could not tell if there was anything of substance behind his grin. And then I heard the squeak of floorboards from the ceiling. There were footsteps moving over my head. Someone was walking — no, running — through my bedchamber. I threw a startled glance through the salon door, where I could just catch a glimpse of the stairs. Had anyone thought to lock the storeroom?
“Shall you come to dinner again tonight, Miss Tulman?” the blonde Miss Mortimer was saying rather halfheartedly, her eyes on the franc in my hand. She was pouting. The noise of feet moving back and forth pattered above my head, and I looked again out the window. I needed these people to leave. Quickly.
“Thank you,” I replied, “but I have … engagements, early in the morning. And actually, I have much to accomplish this —”
“Oh!” said the brown Miss Mortimer, setting down her cup, “do you have other acquaintances in Paris, Miss Tulman?”
I saw Mrs. Hardcastle’s face perk with interest, and gave myself a mental kick. The floorboards groaned with the hurried steps. “No,” I said, a little too fast. “No, my visits tomorrow are …” My mind raced, searching for anything that would be dull to the present company. “… of a charitable nature. I plan to tour several public institutions, to improve what is offered to the villagers on the Stranwyne estate.”
I was gratified by the look of repugnance shared between the two young ladies, and the slight boredom of Mrs. Hardcastle.
“But this is noble, Miss Tulman!” said Mr. Marchand. “I have an interest in such things myself. Allow me to escort you on your tour.”
That captured the room’s attention. I felt three sets of eyes swing to me, waiting for my response. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Marchand. Mr. Babcock plans to escort me.”
“But he must be a man of much business, while I have nothing so worthy on which to spend my time. And we have already established that Paris can be unsafe.” He smiled again, stretching the tiny mustache, and all the eyes moved in tandem back to me. I felt my temper rising.
“I have already made my plans, Mr. Marchand, and I am sure I do not need an escort to go anywhere.” This was not remotely true; at the moment I would not have put a toe outside my own front door. But hearing one of the Miss Mortimers give a soft gasp was pleasurable.
I opened my mouth to speak, but was saved from saying anything more rude by a deafening crash from over our heads, a thundering cacophony that shook the ceiling and shocked the room. We all looked up, Mrs. Hardcastle through her pince-nez, and watched the chandelier pendants jiggle and clink. Then the footsteps started up again, just as frantic as before. Mrs. Hardcastle turned the pince-nez to me.
“Is there some sort of trouble upstairs, Miss Tulman?”
A row of curious faces looked back at me, waiting for me to speak. I opened my mouth, struggling to bring any sort of plausible explanation to my tongue, when with no warning Mrs. DuPont appeared in the doorway.
“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” she said, her black eyes canny, “for the terrible noise. Marguerite has dropped a tray.”
“A tray,” I repeated slowly, “dropped by Marguerite.”
Mrs. DuPont’s face did not change. “Yes, Mademoiselle. I will speak with her about her clumsiness. A thousand pardons to your guests.” She looked at me again, a bit triumphant, dropped the hint of a curtsy and left the room with a
“But what of our plans, Miss Tulman?” said Mr. Marchand. “I have a relative on the side of my mother, in the Hotel des Invalides. The hospital there is one of the finest in France. And the tomb of the great Napoleon, it is there, as well. You cannot resist such an offer as that.”
I put my eyes on Mr. Marchand, and what I resisted was a very strong urge to suggest that he escort Mr. DuPont instead. “Mr. Babcock has already made up a list and secured my invitations, Mr. Marchand. I will await his pleasure.”
His friendly smile widened. “Then I will stop at the same time tomorrow, Miss Tulman, and if you wish to see the Hotel des Invalides, I shall be happy to serve. If no, then I will not disturb you for the world.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Hardcastle, making me start, “I daresay the rain is slowing. Do you think we shall still have time to make the Madeleine, girls?”
I found the Miss Mortimers staring at me from the settee, teacups halfway to mouths, their faces a blend of mortification and incredulity that both flattered and insulted. The slouching man outside was folding his wet newspaper, and I heard the footsteps above my head move toward the landing. The thought of who might come running down those stairs had me instantly on my feet.
“Well, thank you so much for visiting, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Mortimer, Miss Mortimer, Mr. Marchand.” I gave them each a brief nod. “Do come again.”
Cups were set down in haste and Marguerite appeared from nowhere, showing everyone to their damp wraps and umbrellas. The Miss Mortimers peered up the stairs as they were ushered out, looking for the elusive Mr. Babcock, and I ignored the tip of Mr. Marchand’s hat after it went onto his head. As soon as Marguerite had shut the door and trotted off toward the kitchen, I ran up the stairs to my bedchamber.
There was no Uncle Tully. Only Mary on her knees in the middle of the floor, wrestling with an armload of clothing, my trunk lid propped up, the wardrobe gaping wide. From the tall chest, various drawers were hanging open, one of them pulled right from its slot to the floor, a jumble of candlesticks and small ornaments scattered where they’d fallen. I let out a long breath, and Mary looked up from her skirmish with the petticoats, freckles invisible beneath her irritated flush. The petticoats seemed to be winning.
“Are they gone, Miss? Well, that’s a relief and no mistake. Mr. Tully is awake and had his tea, but it’s playtime, Miss, playtime like you’ve never seen. He’s got that box of Mr. Babcock’s open and you know what it’s like when he’s got something new to grab hold of. There’s no reasoning with him, though he don’t look near ready to be out of a bed, if you’re asking me, which I note you ain’t. You’re meant to come upstairs at noontime on the dot, Miss, so mind your time, ’cause Lord knows I’m not going back up anytime soon. Mr. Tully yelled like the devil for me to be on my way and I locked the door — you forgot to do that this morning, Miss — and came down to do a quick spot of unpacking, and instead dumped a drawerful of candlesticks and I don’t know what else on the floor.”
She gave up her attempt to fold and wadded up my petticoats. “I don’t know how a body’s supposed to be doing their job, or how we’re supposed to be keeping ourselves to ourselves when it’s worse than the London Bridge about this place, people in and out, in and out the whole day through. And what with men on the sidewalk and that DuPont woman hanging about like a crow on a limb, it’s a miracle we ain’t done for already. And what’s to happen to Mr. Tully, then, Miss? And to you? We won’t be lasting out the week at this rate. …”
I sank into the velvet chair, not bothering to dam Mary’s flood of words. Mostly because they were true. Every last one of them. This was becoming less a matter of whether Uncle Tully would be found or not, and more of a race to see who would be the first to make the discovery.
I closed my eyes, and for one moment, for a fleeting second, sitting in that chair behind the darkness of my eyelids, I wished that I was empty-headed and vapid, with an over-trimmed dress and nothing more pressing than rain on the way to the Madeleine.
What I truly wished was that Lane was here, telling me what I should do.
15
